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Our 


cAncestors 


A COMEDY IN TWO ACTS 


By 


JEANNE MAIRET 




(MADAME CHARLES BIGOT) 




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THE 


SHAKESPEARE PRESS 


114-116 EAST 28TH STREET 




NEW YORK 



Our cAncestors 



A COMEDY IN TWO ACTS 



By JEANNE MAIRET 

(MADAME CHARLES BIGOT) 



THE SHAKESPEARE PRESS 

114-116 KAST 28th STREKT 

NE:W YORK 



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Copyright, 191 1, by 
Shakespeare Press. 



©CI.A3()3320 



OUR ANCESTORS 

ACT I 

SCENE I 

Personages 
Hugh Preston Arabella Stewart 

Sir Mervyn Woodruff Ruth Cameron 
Mr. Amos Stewart Peggie Stewart 

Mrs. Dumpton 

A much-encumbered and vast loft In the country 
house of Mr. Amos Stewart. Armor, costumes, drap- 
eries tumbled together. A lay figure, dressed In old- 
time clothes, stands In a corner. Hugh Preston dis- 
covered painting. He wears a hat and plume of the 
Charles I period, and looks In a mirror as he 
works. Whistles softly to himself: ''Charlie Is my 
darling . . ." 

Hugh. It Is an extraordinary fact, but all the ancestors 
, of Mr. Amos Stewart bear an extraordinary like- 



OUR ANCESTORS 

ness to . . . their painter. In these pictures, 
whether they are signed Holbein, Van-Dyck or 
Velasquez, the likeness will pop out, even when 
I change the shape of the nose or the color of 
the eyes. A real family likeness which begins 
at the Crusades and ends . . . well, I suppose it 
must end when I attack Amos Stewart, Esq., him- 
self. Rather a pity, as I consider my present 
model far better looking than Amos. (Throws 
himself back in his chair.) Two months of 
solitary confinement up in this garret. Two 
months without speaking to any human being 
except my female jailor, when she brings me my 
prison food. No outsider is to guess that an an- 
cestry-factory has been established in this modern 
castle, where the dungeons are at the top of the 
house, instead of being underground, and where 
everything seems somehow turned topsy-turvy. Lu- 
gubrious silence reigned supreme and I might have 
thought myself in another planet until yesterday, 
when I certainly heard some bustle, even the sound 
of female voices, by no means belonging to that de- 
veloped charmer, the venerable Mrs. Dumpton. 
(He listens.) A laugh! . . . Somebody has laughed 
in this abode of misery — and it is a young laugh. 
(Puts down his palette, throws off his hat, draws a 
stool near the window, which is a high one, and 
cranes hl^ neck so as to catch a glimpse of the out- 
side world.) 



OUR ANCESTORS 



SCENE 11. 



Enter Mrs. Dumpton, carrying a tray. Behind her, 
on tiptoe, comes Peggie. As the housekeeper turns 
to shut the door, Peggie slips in quickly and hides be- 
hind the lay figure. 

Mrs. Dmnpton. (Looks around for Hugh Preston, 
then spies him on the stool.) Lord'a'mercy, sir, 
what air you doin' up there? You'll surely topple 
over if you go on peering like that — and you're 
making signs, too! 'Pon my word! Them's pretty 
manners for a gentleman, who was to keep 'nony- 
mous, as people who write books and don't sign 'em 
is called. 

Hugh. I have had enough of being anonymous, 
worthy Dame Dumpton. I'm going to strike, and 
you may tell your master so, if you like. I agreed 
to paint him a lot of ancestors at the lowest possible 
rates; but I did not agree to be driven into raving 
madness by solitary confinement. Two months with- 
out seeing a human countenance . . . 

Mrs. D. And what do you call mine, if you please? 
You might keep a civil tongue in your head! 

Hugh. I beg your pardon, worthy dowager. 

Mrs. D. I'm Mrs. Dumpton, if you don't mind. I 
won't be called names, no, not by no means! 

Hugh. If you only knew that, driven to desperation, 
I had once — only once — been on the verge of kissing 
you, revered dame ! 

Mrs. D. (Bridling up.) And you would not have 



6 OUR ANCESTORS 

been so much to be pitied, neither, let me tell you, 
young man ! 

Hugh. I resisted the evil temptation . . . Let us see 
what you have brought me to-day. Something good, 
hey? 

Mrs. D. You can't say that I starve you, anyhow. 
Master said you was to be fed up, so that you might 
work hard. (Puts the things down, placing the des- 
sert on another table.) 

Hugh. That looks rather appetizing. I have been 
expecting to turn from my food with disgust, be- 
cause of my loneliness and misery. But, so far, I 
have not. 

Mrs. D. As to that! . . . Now, what shall I give 
you for your dinner . . . But there'll be lots any- 
way, since the family . . . Drat my tongue . . . 
I was to say nothing about it! 

Hugh. As though I had no ears and no eyes ! Do 
you think that I took these voices — that laugh — 
those tripping steps for yours, worthy Dumpton? 
Has the great Amos come with his womenfolk? 

Mrs. D. No, he hasn't. But he's expected. If I 
remain another moment I shall let it all out. You're 
to lock the door after me and let nobody else come 
in. Them's the orders. 

Hugh (Beginning to eat with good appetite.) All 
right, mother. 

Mrs. D. Lshall be back for the tray in an hour. Now 
let me hear you lock the door. (Exit. Hugh fol- 
lows her and locks the door, then returns to his 
place and falls to heartily. Meanwhile, Peggie, 
who has peeped out several times during the fore- 



OUR ANCESTORS 7 

going scene, comes forward, half-shy, half-bold. She 
IS biting a big red apple.) 

Peggie, How are you, Mister Painter? 

Hugh. (Letting his knife and fork fall in his amaze- 
ment.) The Dickens! . . . How did you get 
here? 

Peg. Through the window— flew in, you know, in the 
shape of a wee, sweet little bird. Only I left my 
wings in the cloak room. Have a bite ? (Offers her 
apple. ) 

Hugh. Thanks ! I have not yet got to the dessert. 
Are you a daughter of Mr. Amos Stewart? 

Peg. You bet your little boots ! The youngest. My 
name is Margaret, only they call me Peggie for 
short, and because it sounds infantile. Just as they 
make me wear my frocks up to the knee. You know, 
Mr. . . .Mr. . . . what's your name? I told you 
mine. 

Hugh. Hugh Preston, at your service, Miss Peggie. 

Peg. ( Taking another bite. ) I was going to say that, 
as long as Arabella isn't married, I shall be kept in 
very short skirts. Even if I were eighteen, they'd be 
cut off ever so high up and my hair dressed with 
pink or blue flyers. And I'm fourteen; in four years 
I shall really be eighteen. 

Hugh. Go to the top of the class. Pupil Peggie. 

Peg.^ You needn't poke fun at me ! Don't you think 
it's wrong, almost wicked for elder sisters not to 
marry and . . . clear the decks for the others? 
Now, Arabella is twenty-two . . . Isn't that awfully 
old? When I am twenty-two I shall have been mar- 



8 OUR ANCESTORS 

ried at least two years, perhaps four . . . per- 
haps . . . 

Hugh. Perhaps six. I could easily picture you a 
bride ... a beautiful bride at sixteen. 

Peg. (Radiant.) Could you, now? Oh, I like you, 
Mr. Hugh Preston, ever, ever so much. Nobody, 
so far, has ever told me that I should be married 
at sixteen. 

Hugh. I hope you'll invite me to the wedding. 

Peg. Sure! (Looks longingly at the luncheon.) I 
say . . . You won't mind if I tell you that I'm 
. . . I'm just starving . . . and it does look so 
good and picknicky, so much nicer than a regular 
meal, with lots of dishes served with knives and 
forks and things, all put just so, and a man behind 
your chair who looks at every morsel you eat. I'm 
always — always — hungry, and I often steal things 
from the butler's pantry. You won't tell on me ? 

Hugh. (Rising with stately politeness.) Will you do 
me the great honor, Miss Margaret Stewart, of shar- 
ing my humble repast? 

Peg. Won't I, though! (Puts a chair opposite his 
and sits down.) Isn't this a lark, though! Now, 
we might almost play at being married, couldn't 
we? Only that you are a bit old. I say, there is but 
one plate, one glass, one everything. How mean of 
Mrs. Dumpton. She ought to have foreseen that 
you might have a guest. I'll take the bread plate, so 
— that will be all right. A little broiled chicken- — 
Not so very little, either — that's good; only you 
must keep a little for yourself. 

Hugh. But how are you going to eat it? . . . Ah. 



OUR x^NCESTORS 9 

here Is a dessert fork. (Goes to the other table and 
takes various articles which he hands her.) 

Peg. And the glass?. . . Walt a bit. (Rushes off 
until she finds a dressing-room, and comes back tri- 
umphantly with a mug.) That must do for you. I'll 
take the glass. 

Hugh. Certainly. Only . . . 

Peg. Oh! never mind. I don't. (Drinks.) Now, 
isn't this comfy and cozy? Oh! how good it all 
tastes. Much better than my old apple. (Throws 
It out of the window.) I hope it'll fall on Mother 
Dumpton's head. She Is such a poke. You mustn't 
tell. I didn't really fly Into the room. I saw the old 
thing pufling up the stairs (imitates her and swells 
out her cheeks), carrying that heavy tray with all 
the good things on It, and, naturally, it made me 
curious. Wouldn't It you? 

Hugh. Most undoubtedly. 

Peg. We had already got a notion that something 
mysterious was going on here, and I made up my 
mind to find out what it was. So I slipped my shoes 
off and followed the Dumpton. 

Hugh. Like a small boat attached to a schooner. 

Peg. The schooner had enough to do to waddle along. 
When she turned one way, I turned the other. When 
she opened the door, I hid behind a pillar; when she 
sailed In, puffing more than ever, I slipped by and 
hid behind that lady there, who did not mind it one 
bit. I heard all you said . . . about kissing her and 
all . . . 

Hugh. You did, did you ! 

Peg. Don't be afraid. I won't blab. Only, it was so 



10 OUR ANCESTORS 

funny to think of you ... I almost exploded, you 
know. If I had, I should have been sent out — and 
we should not have had this nice little picnic — and 
what a pity that would have been ! 

Hugh. I should think so. 

Peg. (Looking at the dish.) Isnt' there just a little 
bone left? . . . Oh! thanks. But I am afraid I 
am depriving you. 

Hugh. (A little ruefully.) Not in the least. (Takes 
the dish and puts his bread in the gravy, for lack of 
anything else). So you and the other ladies have 
come to the castle for the Summer: your mother, 
your sister, and? . . . (He stops inquiringly.) 

Peg. (Eating all the while.) . . . And Ruth Cam- 
eron. Nice girl, Ruth Cameron, ever so much nicer 
than Bella. Only she insists on making me say my 
French verbs every day. I hate French verbs, don't 
you? How can you keep avoir out of etre, or 
etre out of avoir? I can't. They will mix somehow. 
Then there's the English beau. Sir Mervyn Wood- 
ruff. He's followed us all the way from England. 
We met him at a swell house party, where there 
were ever so many great names — names one finds in 
history, you know . . . and where people at lunch- 
eon helped themselves from a sideboard; no servants 
allowed. Mother said she thought it wasn't quite a 
lady's duty to help herself off a sideboard. I found 
it rather fun, because I just heaped my plate; people 
didn't seem to mind what you did. 

Hugh. So the Englishman followed in the wake of the 
dollars? 

Peg. Of course. But lie does not seem to make much 



OUR ANCESTORS ii 

headway. Arabella said to Ruth — you know they 
were at school together and great chums; it was 
Bella forced Ruth to travel with her — "Ruth, dar- 
ling, I will only marry a man who loves me for 
myself" ... I heard her. I hear everything that 
is not intended for me, and then I teaze ... I 
teaze . . . until life becomes a burden. I turn up 
my eyes — so — and I say: "Bella, dear, do you think 
the dogs and cats and birds love you for yourself, 
or for what you give them to eat?" Isn't it senti- 
mental rot? I shouldn't care what I was married 
for, so that I got a husband of some sort. After 
all, it wouldn't be so bad to be Lady Woodruff, now 
would it? 

Hugh. Some dessert, my practical little friend? 

Peg. As much as possible. Let's share and share 
alike. (Cuts the pie in two and divides the fruit.) 
But I really fear that I had more than my share of 
that chicken. Are you very hungry still? 

Hugh. Not ravenously so. I can make up for my 
fasting at dinner time. Will you allow me to go on 
with my work? My task is a quarter of an ancestor 
a day. I have got up to Charles L's time. That's 
doing pretty well, I take it. (Puts on the hat and 
takes up his brushes, still nibbling at the pie.) 

Peg. How funny you look with your cutaway coat 
and that feathered hat I What on earth do you 
mean about a quarter of an ancestor a day? Whose 
ancestors are they? 

Hugh. Yours, Miss Margaret Stewart. 

Peg. (Bent with laughter.) Father's grandfather 



12 OUR ANCESTORS 

was a bricklayer who came from the old coun- 
try .. . 

Hugh. Error, error. I can prove it by my painting. 
I have photographs from the time of the Crusad- 
ers .. . (A knock at the door.) I say . . . don't 
laugh so. Keep still. I am not allowed to see any- 
one. (Louder and more imperious knocking. A 
voice calls, "Open, open at once — or I shall have the 
door broken In.") 

Peg. (In a stage whisper.) That's Bella. And isn't 
she in a pretty rage ! 

Hugh. (Very loud.) I regret exceedingly, but Mr. 
Stewart's orders are peremptory. I am not to open. 
I am not to show myself. I am a prisoner on pa- 
role, and am only allowed to take some exercise at 
night, when everybody is asleep. 

Bella. (From the outside.) I am Mr. Stewart's daugh- 
ter. In his absence I command. Open. 

Hugh. Then, Miss Stewart, you take It all upon your- 
self. I yield to superior force. (Opens the door.) 



SCENE HI. 



Arabella, Ruth, Sir Mervyn Woodruff. Peggie hides 
behind the; lay figure. 

Bella. (Looking with amazement at the painter.) 
What is the meaning of all this ... of this mas- 
querading ... of all this trumpery? (Points to 



OUR ANCESTORS 13 

the costumes, etc., and catches a glimpse of her little 
sister.) Peggie . . . you here? How dare you be 
shut up with . . . with a stranger, you naughty, 
shameless child ! You ought to be whipped ! 
Peg. (To Hugh.) Didn't I tell you she treated me 
like a baby, so that people shouldn't guess how 
awfully old she is? Now, don't fly into one of your 
tantrums, Bella, what's the use? Sir Mervyn might 
get scared and run away. Then you'd discover that 
you adored him. 
Sir M. Oh ! . . . Ah ! . . . I'll run away in that case. 
Peg. I'll present, you, Bella. This is my friend, Mr. 
Hugh Preston. He's painting our ancestors — not the 
bricklayer — but those of the Crusades. He has 
photographs of them — so that's proof enough, isn't 
it? He paints a quarter of one a day, and father 
gets them dirt cheap. I heard Mr. Preston say so 
to the housekeeper ... so now! 
Bella. (Haughtily.) Will you explain the meaning 

of all this, Mr. . . . Mr. . . . 
Peg. (Cheerfully.) Mr. Hugh Preston. You never 
can catch names, Bella. It is an infirmity of age. 
But I must go on with my presentations. Miss Ruth 
Cameron . . . 
Hugh. The lady of the French verbs? An admirable 

governess, I am sure. 
Peg. (A little disconcerted.) Governess? . . . Well, 

yes, if you like. Sir Mervyn Woodruff. 
Hugh. (Holding out his hand.) Glad to make your 
acquaintance. Sir Mervyn. I wish you'd sit to me 
for one of the fearless warriors of old — for one 
who is afraid ... of nothing. 



14 OUR ANCESTORS 

Sir M. Charmed, I'm sure. 

Hugh. (Playing the host.) Pray be seated. There 
are not many chairs, but packing cases are good 
substitutes. 

Bella. Thanks. We shall not intrude long upon your 
privacy, and I shall take my little sister away with 
me. But first you must explain. 

Hugh. (Sweetly.) With the greatest pleasure. I was 
studying painting in Paris, and my funds had run 
very low; artists' funds somehow have a way of 
running low. I had gone to a comrade's studio, 
when your father, Mr. Amos Stewart, walked in. 
He was not embarrassed, Americans are never em- 
barrassed; but he was a little at a loss. He said in 
a loud voice — people who do not know the language 
of the country always yell — ^why, I cannot tell: 
"Pa-a-ley-vous English?" At which my friend, who 
is a very modest man, not at all given to boasting, 
replied: "A few . . ." 

Ruth. (Laughing.) They both needed my lessons, 
I think. 

Hugh. I served as interpreter, and all went on smooth- 
ly. Mr. Stewart had built this very fine castle, 
which contains a long picture gallery. But what is 
a picture gallery without pictures, and a castle, copied 
from the Chateau de Blois, without ancestral por- 
traits? Mr. Stewart wanted to order them whole- 
sale, so 'much a gross, and offered the job, with 
board and lodging. My friend was . . . well, shall 
I say disconcerted? . . . and refused. He came 
to the conclusion that his knowledge of English was 



OUR ANCESTORS 15 

really insufficient, and the price offered equally so. 
He urged me to take his place. I wanted to return 
to America — so the bargain was soon concluded. 
Mr. Stewart understood the necessity of stage prop- 
erties, and I ordered enough to stride over more 
than six centuries ... as you can see. 

Sir M. Any-difficulty at the Custom House? 

Hugh. My lay-figure nearly caused me to be sent back 
like an unsatisfactory emigrant. It was in a long 
box and looked most suspicious. I had to explain 
that it was my deceased wife, brought over for inter- 
m.ent. Then I was allowed to pass on. 

Bella. And you have been here? . . . 

Hugh. Just two months. I have scrambled up to the 
Stuart days ... to your direct ancestor. 

Bella. (Proudly.) My father is his own ancestor. 
We need no trumpery make-believes in our family. 

Hugh. That was not his way of thinking. 

Ruth. Remember, dear, that you have often regretted 
not belonging to the Colonial Dames or to the 
Daughters of the Revolution. I know families whose 
great occupation is the painful erection of their fam- 
ily tree. 

Peg. So do I . . . for I am a good listener. Mrs. 
Allard Smith had almost succeeded and had dug out 
an ancestor who had served under Washington. 
Only she discovered just in time that he had been 
hanged for stealing. 

Bella. Can't you hold your tongue for ten minutes? 
. . . Now, Mr. Preston, pray let us talk over this 
matter a little seriously. 

Hugh. No one is more serious than I am in business 



i6 OUR ANCESTORS 

— and this job of mine has not much to do with art, 
as I need not tell you, Miss Stewart. 

Bella. How can you pretend to make us descend from 
the Stuarts? In the first place, the name is written 
differently : S-t-e-w-a-r-t. 

Hugh. All the greater proof of authenticity. The 
forefather of the reigning family of the Stuarts was 
• called Fitzflaad and crossed over to England with 
William the Conquerer. 

Ruth. Naturally. That enterprising duke must have 
been followed by the entire population of Normandy. 

Peg. He beats the Mayflower, doesn't he, now? 

Hugh. He became steward of Scotland under David I. 
and his family, succeeding to the oflice, took the 
name of it. 

Peg. They were butlers in the family, were they? 

Hugh. Not exactly. But it came to the same thing. 
Even to pull on royal stockings confers dignity. It 
was the French, always friendly to the Scotch, who 
changed the name to Stuart. When Robert Bruce 
died, leaving only one daughter, she married a 
Stuart and her son became king. 

Peg. Isn't he learned, I say! 

Hugh. Encyclopedic knowledge. Miss Peggie. My 
English and Scottish history had grown somewhat 
rusty, so I brushed it up in honor of my new job. I con- 
fess that I lingered a little over the Crusaders, when 
some of your ancestors distinguished themselves. 
I do not^make them of royal descent. Miss Stewart. 
I am discreet. You come of a lateral branch. These 
adventurous spirits followed Richard, having some- 
how wandered over the border. The armor is con- 



OUR ANCESTORS 17 

venlent. Only the eyes show, and I have made them 
as fierce as possible. Later on, as you see (turns 
around a number of canvases), I had to use myself 
as model. I apologize for my boldness, but really, 
painting entirely from imagination is a little unsatis- 
factory. 

Peg. What a lot of Preston portraits ! I don't com- 
plain, for one. I shall always remember that I de- 
voured most of the luncheon prepared for the 
painter of the numberless Stuarts, all the way from 
David I. to Charles. We were a good-looking set 
In those days. 

Hugh. (Modestly.) Oh! I endeavored to change the 
type as much as possible. 

Ruth. Your success In that particular, Mr. Preston,, 
has been less remarkable than In making a most 
amusing series. And I see that they are all signed. 

Hugh. Yes. Mr. Stewart was very particular about 
that, and he wished for big names. Of course, I did 
not object. Only he suggested that they should all 
be signed Van Dyck. That seemed to me, chrono- 
logically speaking, rather difficult, so I varied the 
signatures. 

Sir M. But how are you going to make all this fresh 
paint look old? 

Hugh. Nothing easier. Picture dealers always do It, 
especially when they send a lot of old masters to 
America. Here, this one Is dry. (He takes a por- 
trait and rubs It vigorously on the dusty floor.) 
There, now! . . . You see that It Is not complicated. 
(Exhibits a very black painting.) 

Bella. I see nothing but men among your masterpieces. 



1 8 OUR ANCESTORS 

Surely some of these heroes must have been mar- 
ried. 

Sir M. Else they were scarcely heroes. 

Bella. Is that an epigram, Sir Mervyn? 

Sir M. I meant it as a compliment. 

Ruth. It can be taken both ways. 

Hugh. Ah! Miss Stewart, there you have put your 
finger on my chief perplexity. I am terribly want- 
ing in imagination. I need models. You really 
would not have wished Mrs. Dumpton's charms to 
be made immortal as the one type of Stewart beauty! 

Bella. Heaven forbid! 

Hugh. If . . . if . . . but I hardly dare to formu- 
late so audacious a wish . . . 

Bella. (Smiling.) It seems to me, Mr. Preston, that 
timidity is scarcely your predominant characteristic. 

Hugh. Then let me at least have the benefit of my 
shamelessness. If you and Miss Cameron . . . 
and even my little friend. Miss Peggie, would only 
sit to me . . . then indeed would your gallery of 
old masters attract visitors ! 

Bella. (Hesitating.) Really ... it seems rather 
difficult. We have many engagements. Then my 
father, who was so careful to hide his secret, would 
be ill-pleased. My mother . . . 

Peg. As to mother, you know as well as I do, Bella, 
that as long as she can nurse her sick headaches on a 
sofa, with a couple of new novels on her table and 
no one to bother her, she will ask for nothing more. 
You twist father around your little finger. There ! 
... Of course, Mr. Preston, we shall all be de- 
lighted to sit to you and wear all these pretty rags. 



OUR ANCESTORS 19 

Begin with me. Only don't — please don't — paint me 
as a little girl! 

Hugh. You shall be a dowager, with a big Elizabethan 
ruff and a poodle dog. 

Peg. And wrinkles — mind you put In some wrinkles. 

Bella. What do you say, Ruth? 

Ruth. That we all accept, of course. Your guests do 
not come for several weeks. We have nothing in 
the world to do, and it will be great fun to resusci- 
tate history, thanks to Mr. Preston. 

Hugh. I am so grateful . . . Let us begin at once. I 
have not yet quite made up my mind as to how I 
shall bring your ancestors over to America. You 
must help me. 

Peg. There is the bricklayer . . . 

Bella. (Severely.) Peggie! 

Hugh. We shall leave him in the background. Miss 
Margaret. Of course. In some way or other, we 
must Introduce Lady Arabella Stuart; that is a fore- 
gone conclusion. 

Bella. Was she not of royal blood? 

Hugh. She was only the daughter of Charles Stuart, 
Earl of Lennox, and cousin to the king. 

Peg. Doesn't he know a lot! Even Miss Cameron 
cannot hold a candle to him. 

Ruth. I have no such high pretensions. 

Bella. Peggie, if you do not keep quiet, I shall send 
you downstairs ... I am Interested in my name- 
sake. What became of her? I have quite forgot- 
ten. Didn't Queen Elizabeth put her to death? 

Hugh. Arabella had some claim to the English throne, 
and so the Queen forbade her to marry. There 



20 OUR ANCESTORS 

were enough Stuarts in her way as it was. But Ara- 
bella fell in love with a gallant gentleman, William 
Seymour, and married him secretly. Naturally, the 
secret was ill-kept. Seymour was sent to the Tower, 
and she became the prisoner of the Bishop of Dur- 
ham. She escaped and embarked for France. Her 
husband also got out of the Tower, but he was 
unable to reach his wife; her vessel was captured, 
and she, in her turn, was sent to the Tower, where, 
five years later, she died, raving mad. 

Bella. How tragic! I think her costume might be 
becoming to me. If we cannot claim Arabella as 
our ancestress ... 

Hugh. Especially as she left no children . . . 

Bella. Exactly. I might personate some relative, at- 
tached to her evil fortunes . . . and wearing her 
cast-off finery. 

Hugh. That would be the very thing. But there is 
another interesting young woman whom I should 
wish you to personate. 

Peg. That's it ! You'll see that all the fine parts will 
be given to her. You and I, Miss Ruth, will be the 
wallflowers. 

Ruth. I am resigned to my sad fate, Peggie. What is 
that other romance, Mr. Preston? 

Hugh. That of a pretender. A youth named Perkin 
Warbeck personated the Duke of York, supposed to 
have escaped from the Tower and from the clutches 
of his wicked uncle, Richard III. The King of 
France, Charles VIII., and Margaret of Burgundy, 
took up the cause of the pretender; so did James 
IV. of Scotland. He even gave the supposed Duke 



OUR ANCESTORS 21 

of York a cousin of his in marriage. Now, I am 
intimately persuaded that your branch of the Stuarts 
comes from that lovely person . . . whom I shall 
paint from you, Miss Stewart, If you will con- 
descend to sit for me. 

Sir M. The costume will also be very becoming. I 
know something about it. We possess a portrait of 
this very lady at Woodruff Castle. I am delighted 
to think that we are related. 

Peg. What fun! . . . What became of that sweet 
youth, do tell me, Mr. Preston! 

Hugh. You had better apply to Miss Cameron, who, I 
am sure, is better able to edify you than I could 
be ... in spite of the Encyclopedia. 

Ruth. If I remember right, Perkin Warbeck was aban- 
doned by his royal protectors when they found that 
he could be of no further use to them, and he was 
finally sent to the block. 

Hugh. But now, what about the emigration to Amer- 
ica? 

*S;> M. It might take place under Elizabeth, I should 
say. A beautiful relative accompanied Mary Stuart 
to England, and after the wicked murder of that 
unfortunate — if not spotless — Queen, fled to the 
Colonies. 

Hugh. That would be plausible, Sir Mervyn. But 
what about my lovely Charles I. hat and plume? I 
cannot sacrifice them. Let us say that after the 
execution of Mary Stuart the family fell into dis- 
grace, and when Charles I. in his turn lost his head 
— and no longer needed a hat — the Stewarts emi- 
grated. How would that do ? 



22 OUR ANCESTORS 

Bella. Perfect. I begin to feel quite at home with 

our ancestors. 
Hugh. Then Miss Cameron would kindly put on the 

Puritan costume. It would suit her to perfection. 
Peg. And whom shall I represent? I won't be left 

out in the cold like that ! 
Bella. You shall be one of the Salem witches; you 

would not have to complain of the cold then . . . 
Hugh. When shall we begin? If you knew how tired 

I am of contemplating my own face ! 
Bella. At once . . . that is as soon as the costumes 

are ready. 
Hugh. You will find all you need in these trunks. Six 

centuries might suffice even for American nobility. 
Bella. If we can't go further, I suppose so. 
Peg. There are Adam and Eve. I don't see them in 

your collection, Mr. Preston. 
Hugh. The fashions of the day embarrassed me. 

Otherwise. . . . (While the women are examining 

the costumes a knock at the door is heard, and Mrs. 

Dumpton calls out, "Open the door, Mr. Preston!") 



SCENE IV. 



The same, Mrs. Dumpton. 



Hugh. Come in, fair dame. (Throws open the door.) 
Mrs. D. Oh ! my stars and little bits of garters 
Here's a pretty kettle of fish ! 



OUR ANCESTORS 23 

Bella. I take It all upon my own shoulders, Mrs. 
Dumpton. I forced Mr. Preston to let us in. 

Peg. But I was the first to break the law and you 
were complice. You let me in, Mrs. Dumpton. 

Mrs. D. I . . . The impudence of it ! 

Peg. I slid in behind you, in your shadow; there was 
plenty of room. 

Mrs. D. And I who only came in for the tray ! 

Peg. You won't find much left on it. I never saw a 
man with such an appetite. 

Mrs. D. For sure . . . You shall have a whole 
chicken next time. Master said you were not to be 
starved . . . 

Bella. He shall not. Henceforth Mr. Preston is to 
be my guest and have his place at our table. 

Mrs. D. And your father, Miss Arabella ? . . . What 
will he say to all these fine doings? It's as much 
as my place is worth. 

Bella. I shall explain everything myself to my father. 

Mrs. D. Then you can do so at once. He came up 
unexpectedly from New York, and his first question 
was about his painter man. He said he'd follow 
me up . . . and I hear his step. 'Tain't my fault, 
anyhow. 

Peg. Now for a storm, or my name isn't Peggie Stew- 
art! 

Bella. (Very dignified.) My father is sure to under- 
stand my conduct in this matter, which touches me 
quite as much as it does him. If he can endure to 
see all his male ancestors look like . . . like an out- 
sider, I wish my friends to see something of me in 
Lady Arabella's relative — and in all the others. 



24 OUR ANCESTORS 

SCENE V. 
The same. Mr. Amos Stewart. 

Mr. S. (Stands at the open door In amazement.) 
What is the meaning of all this noise and confusion? 
I gave strict orders . . . 

Mrs. D. 'Tain't my fault, sir; ask Miss Arabella. 

Bella. Glad to see you, father, especially as I have to 
explain my conduct — of which you will be sure to 
approve. I soon found that we had an unexpected 
guest ... in our garret. Of course, I had to find 
out who it was. I must do Mr. Preston the justice 
to say that he only opened the door when I threat- 
ened to have it battered in. He has just introduced 
us to a number of ancestors, called into being by 
your orders, and I have been greatly pleased to 
make their acquaintance. We begin with the later 
Crusades . . . naturally. With our importance in 
the world, we could not do less. But Mr. Preston 
was much embarrassed with regard to the women of 
our race. He had no model of female beauty . . . 
with the exception of Mrs. Dumpton: quantity is 
not always quality. We are going to sit to him. It 
is all arranged, and we were just choosing our cos- 
tumes when you interrupted us. You see, father, 
there is no further excuse for secrecy, or for the 
solitary confinement of a very innocent criminal, so 
I have invited Mr. Preston to be our guest, in every 
sense of the word. He is to dine with us this even- 
ing. 



OUR ANCESTORS 25 

Mr. S. Who bosses this house, you or I? 

Bella. (Sweetly.) Each In turn, dear father. Hos- 
pitahty Is especially a feminine virtue, Is It not? 

Hu^h. Let me assure you, Mr. Stewart, that I have 
no desire to Intrude upon your family privacy. If 
you will permit me, I shall leave by the next train 
and finish my work — let us say my job — In my New 
York studio. 

Mr. S. Yes— and have all your friends look at the 
pictures and make fun of Amos Stewart^s ancestors? 
Not much. 

Bella. Don't you see, father, how much nicer It will be 
to keep It all snug and secret among ourselves? 

Mr. S. Secret— with half a dozen women In the plot? 

Bella. Women Interested In a secret know how to hold 
their tongues. The gallery will be all in order, the 
pictures hung before the first set of guests arrives. 
Mr. Preston works so rapidly! 

Hu^h. A quarter of an ancestor a day. 

Mr. S. I suppose there Is no other solution. But I'm 
thinking that If painting Is such quick work, the 
price you asked . . . 

Hu^h. Shall I tell these ladles and Sir Mervyn Wood- 
ruff what that price Is? 

Mr. S. No — no — quite useless to bring business ques- 
tions into society relations. (Growing more amiable 
and shaking hands with Hugh.) I have not yet 
made you welcome to my house, Mr. Preston. Glad 
to see you. Bella Is right. Solitary confinement in 
a garret — even such a garret as this . . . 

Hu^h. (Interrupting him.) . . .ought to be oonsid- 



26 OUR ANCESTORS 

ered In the remuneration. I am quite of that 
opinion. 

Mr. S. (Hastily.) That's another matter. Now, I 
should be glad, like Arabella, to make the acquaint- 
ance of our ancestors. Show us all you have done 
so far. (Takes a chair.) 

Hugh. (Taking up a canvas and turning it toward Mr. 
Stewart.) This, Mr. Stewart, is the first whom I 
have been able to trace through your rather compli- 
cated lineage ! Sir Raoul Fitzflaad, who, from Nor- 
mandy . . . 
(The curtain falls on these words.) 



OUR ANCESTORS 27 



ACT 11. 



SCENE L 



Stage as for Act I., only more tidy, with some fur- 
niture, curtains at the windows, etc. Hugh Preston, 
then (almost immediately) Sir Mervyn Woodruff. 
Soon after Arabella, in Elizabethan costume, glides 
in and hides behind the lay figure. 

Hugh. (Painting and whistling softly to himself.) 
Stunning model. If I don't make a good picture of 
Lady Arabella it will be my fault, not hers. (A 
knock.) Come in! 

Sir M, I don't disturb you? 

Hugh. Not in the least. Make yourself at home. 
Have a cigar? 

Sir M. Thanks, awfully. (Smokes and looks at 
picture.) Fine bit of color, that. I say ... you 
couldn't make a copy for me — with the lady's con- 
sent, of course? 

Hugh. Certainly. But I should think you would pre- 
fer a real portrait of such a model to a mere fancy 
piece. It would look well in your place. 

Sir M. (Hesitatingly.) Yes .• . . of course . . . 
only ... I say, Preston, let us have it out, in a 



28 OUR ANCESTORS 

friendly sort of way, you know. I did hope to have 
the original to grace my house, but now . . . 

Hugh. (Coolly.) And you still hope it, having good 
reasons for so doing. 

Sir M. Not so sure. She's been flirting with you ever 
since we stormed your prison, and . . . you've been 
making love to her. I ought to hate you, for you 
take the shine out of me, and, somehow, I don't. I 
like you . . . 

Hugh. (Heartily.) And I like you. Woodruff, and 
have done so from the first. Now, let's talk the 
matter over quietly and sensibly. Miss Stewart has 
flirted with me, has amused herself, in fact. You 
see, American girls flirt as ducks swim; it's in the 
blood and they can't help It. But, between ourselves, 
it doesn't amount to anything. Seriously, do you 
think that Miss Stewart, the daughter of a multi- 
millionaire, would for an Instant dream of marrying 
a poor devil of a painter, who has not even reputa- 
tion to offer her — only the vague hope of winning it 
some day or other? . . . Folly, sheer folly! 

Sir M. Perhaps, for In many ways she is her father's 
daughter and knows the value of dollars. But she 
is also her novel-reading mother's daughter. She is 
sentimental and wants to be married after some 
romantic fashion. With me, you see, there's no ro- 
mance at all; it's cut and dried; it has been seen a 
thousand times: an international contract — money 
on one side, birth on the other. If I could have 
shown myself as a sort of Perkin Warbeck, taking 
courts and hearts by storm — ^why, I might have stood 
some chance. I am a plain country gentleman and 



OUR ANCESTORS 



29 



take Interest in cattle . . . even In hogs. Nothing 
romantic In hogs, you know. 

Hugh. But you don't take them to market yourself 
. . . Then, what do you think our so-called Amer- 
ican aristocracy comes from? The killing of those 
interesting animals — or the selling of groceries 
wholesale. Is that more romantic than being a gen- 
tleman farmer? 

Sir M. I suppose not. But all Americans are not 
wholesale grocers. You are an artist, you paint 
pretty pictures, you have seen life from an Interest- 
ing and amusing point of view, you can make girls 
laugh. I never knew how to talk to women, some- 
how, and they vote me a bore. I vote myself one, 
I assure you — and It Isn't pleasant. 

Hugh. You are too modest, by half. You were evi- 
dently not born on this side of the ocean. 

Sir M. What I should like to make Miss Arabella 
understand is that if, at first, I did think of her for- 
tune, if the possibility dawned upon me, thanks to 
it, of rebuilding the old place, which is more to me 
than life itself — why, that Is all forgotten. I now 
only think of one thing. I love this woman as I 
could never love another. I think of nothing but 
her. I dream of nothing but her. She is the life 
of my life. 

Hugh. Have you told her so ? 

Sir M. I never dared. 

Hugh. Then you must dare. Speak to her as you 
have spoken to me. You will move her as you have 
Interested me. Since she is far beyond my reach, 
I have but one wish: that of seeing her the wife of 



30 OUR ANCESTORS 

as true-hearted a gentleman as you. (The two men 
shake hands heartily. Arabella glides out.) 

Sir M. I wish I could do something for you. It would 
be such a pleasure. 

Hugh. (Gaily.) Persuade your English friends that a 
new Van Dyck is eager to take England by storm. 
You see, if you are modesty so am I. 

Sir M. So . . . really now . . . you are not madly 
in love with Bella? 

Hugh. I might have been. But I held myself in. I 
tried to remember that I was doing job-painting by 
the yard for her father. That kept me within 
bounds. Then, if I was on the verge of being in love 
with her, I was in the same position with regard to 
the little governess. There's safety in numbers. 

Sir M. Governess? . . . You mean Miss Cameron? 
She's no governess. 

Hugh. Well,, perhaps not. But she gives French les- 
sons to Peggie and teaches the school children to 
sing ... it comes to the same thing. I know that 
Miss Stewart is very good to her. 

Sir M. (On the point of speaking, checks himself.) 
Ah! well ... of course ... I couldn't say about 
that. 

SCENE //. 

The same. Enter Arabella. 

Bella. Are you ready for our last sitting, Mr. Pres- 
ton? You have taken longer over this ancestress 
than over a dozen ancestors. 



OUR ANCESTORS 31 

Hugh. Would I could persuade you that I needed 
many more sittings ! 

Bella. You scarcely need a single one. The portrait 
is charming, is it not, Sir Mervyn? 

Sir M. Painted con amove. 

Bella. (Pretending not to understand.) You have 
been two weeks at it. 

Hugh. That is, I began it two weeks ago; but when 
you found sittings too irksome, I resuscitated sev- 
eral cavalier ancestors and a Roundhead, who some- 
how got into the family. I have now almost finished 
my task — alas ! (Looks at her sentimentally.) 

Sir M. (Nervous.) I feel that no real work will be 
done while I am here. I leave my character in 
your hands. 

Bella. (Sweetly.) We'll take good care of it, and re- 
turn it . . . 

Sir M. In shreds. 

Bella. Not at all. Done up in cast iron. Will you 
kindly tell Ruth that my sitting will be a very short 
one, and that Mr. Preston also expects to finish the 
Puritan portrait to-day? The pictures must all be in 
place before next week, when the house will be full. 
(Exit Sir Mervyn.) 



SCENE HI. 

Hugh and Arabella. 

Bella. (Seated.) Is this the position? 

Hugh. Perfect. The head a little more up. Remem- 



32 OUR ANCESTORS 

ber that you are a very haughty lady — on canvas as 
well as in real life. 

Bella. I, haughty? . . . How little you know me, Mr. 
Preston. I often feel that fortune has played me a 
scurvy trick. I ought to have been some poor girl, 
forced to earn her own living and proud to do 
so . . . 

Hugh. Like your little friend. Miss Cameron. 

Bella. (Hiding a smile.) Yes . . . precisely. Then I 
might really have been loved for myself — ^as she 
will, dear heart ! I should have made an excellent 
poor man's wife, struggling on . . . What does 
one struggle on? — six thousand — four thousand a 
year? 

Hugh. One might struggle on less. 

Bella. I can fancy myself cooking a dinner ... on 
a chafing dish. That sounds nice, does it not? 

Hugh. Not very substanfial, I should say — but nice, 
certainly. 

Bella. And standing at the cottage door, looking out 
for the returning bread-winner. 

Hugh. How touching! What would the bread-win- 
ner be like? Might he carry a paint-box on his 
back? 

Bella. That depends. There are paint-boxes and 
paint-boxes. 

Hugh. If he were to be hailed as the modern Van 
Dyck, f-or instance? . . . (Aside.) But isn't this 
love-making? . . . And my protestations to Sir 
Mervyn? . . . 

Bella. Have you heard of such a man? I have not. 

Hugh. But you may, in time. 



OUR ANCESTORS 33 

Bella. Waiting is but wearisome work. Don't you 
think so? 

Hugh. There are prizes one could wait for . . . in- 
definitely. 

Bella. Until middle-age, for instance? An old maid 
led to the altar by an old bachelor. 

Hugh. Such things have been. They are more truly 
romantic than many a hasty marriage. 

Bella. Poor Peggie! What would she say to such a 
solution ? 

Hugh. We should not consult her. 

Bella. (Haughtily.) We? . . . We have been mak- 
ing mere suppositions, have we not? 

Hugh. Of course . . . certainly. You have lost the 
position. Miss Stewart. Now, the head is held too 
high. (A pause.) 

Bella. May I look upon you as a real friend, Mr. 
Preston? 

Hugh. As the truest and most devoted of friends. 

Bella. Then, in all sincerity, tell me what you think of 
Sir Mervyn Woodruff. 

Hugh. He is an honest gentleman, trusty and loyal. 

Bella. You like him? 

Hugh. Very much. 

Bella. If you had a sister, would you willingly give 
her to him? 

Hugh. With all my heart. 

Bella. Especially if he said: "I love this woman as I 
could never love another. I think of nothing but 
her. I dream of nothing but her. She is the life 
of my life . . ." 

Hugh. (Starting up.) By Jove — you were listening! 



34 OUR ANCESTORS 

Bella. That is ... I heard. It is not the same 

thing. 
Hugh, And, just for the fun of it, you encouraged me 

almost to propose to you . . . almost, not quite 

... in spite of my promises! 
Bella. You see, American girls flirt as ducks swim; it's 

in the blood and they can't help it. But ... it does 

not amount to anything ! 
Hugh. Ah ! Miss Stewart — that is not quite fair. 
Bella. No, it is not. And I beg your pardon. Let's 

be friends, real friends. Here's my hand on it. 



^CENE IV. 

The same. Peggie rushes in madly, then stops short. 

Peg. Well ... I never! No wonder poor Sir Mer- 
vyn was wandering about the garden looking so for- 
lorn! 

Bella. It is extraordinary, Peggie, that you should 
always burst on people when you are least wanted. 
Mr. Preston and I were just agreeing about Sir 
Mervyn's good qualities. 

Peg. In his place I should prefer disagreement, then! 

Hugh. You did not rush upstairs, two steps at a time, 
merely to scold us, did you. Miss Peggie? 

Peg. (Excitedly.) Not I ! I've got lots of news. We 
are going to have fine doings long before we ex- 
pected them. Aunt Jemima and all her tribe have 
plumped down upon us, with twenty trunks, maids 
and all the rest of it. They're wild to see the pic- 



OUR ANCESTORS 35 

tures. The gallery, somehow, has been written up 
in the papers, and Mr. Stewart's "ancestors" are 
making the rounds of the States. Such a fine fuss ! 
Father's just furious, and he's coming up. Only I 
ran ahead. It serves sometimes to be only four- 
teen. Now — what are we going to do ? 

Bella. (Irritated.) We shall be the laughing stock of 
the two worlds ! 

Hugh. Why? Nothing is changed that I know of. 
Most of the begrimed pictures are In their places. 
Other Americans have hunted up their forbears, 
why should not Mr. Stewart do so as well as an- 
other? His genealogical tree Is Illustrated, that's all 
— and as well illustrated as Holbein and the others 
have been able to do it ... by proxy. 

Bella. You, now, are making fun of us, too, Mr. Pres- 
ton, and I am the first to acknowledge that we richly 
deserve It. But It Is not very kind of you — you on 
whom I looked as a friend. 

Hugh. Pardon me, Miss Stewart. I assure you that 
if I could serve you, I would do It with all my heart. 

Peg. Here's father. I hear him puff — almost as much 
as Mother Dumpton. 



SCENE V. 

The same. Mr. x\mos Stewart. 

Mr. S. Confound It all! I wish I had never caused 
my ancestors to be resuscitated. Jemima has always 



36 OUR ANCESTORS 

been jealous of us and has a viper's tongue. What 
can you suggest, Mr. Preston? Jemima must not 
see you. 

Hugh. Why not, Mr. Stewart? Your family por- 
traits were damaged — so many centuries, you know 

. . . and you have employed an artist to touch 
them up a bit. Finding that he had ... let us say, 
some talent, you have commissioned him to paint 
yourself and your eldest daughter. What could be 
simpler? If I understand aright, this lady Is your 
sister. She will naturally share In the family glory. 
Be sure that she will believe In the ancestors before 
a month Is over — and swear by them all. 

Mr. S. And, after all — why should it not all be true? 
One always has ancestors. The only difficulty Is to 
find them. 

Hugh. (Gently.) And what cannot American gold 
help to discover? 

Peg. Why didn't you put the bricklayer in the series? 
He would have done as well as your Norman butch- 
ers and murderers. He would have represented those 
fine democratic principles of which we so like to 
prate. 

Mr. S. Leave the bricklayer alone, my little girl. He's 
very well where he Is, and doesn't at all ask to be 
resuscitated. Now, Preston, what are we going to 
do with this fine lady? She will fill up a space very 
well, and does honor to the family. But doesn't she 
seem very fresh for her period? 

Hugh. We'll soon give her a sixteenth century com- 
plexion. A little thick varnish will do the business. 
Luckily, the paint is dry. I scarcely touched the 



OUR ANCESTORS 37 

portrait this morning. See . . . (Takes a big 
brush and varnishes the picture.) 

Mr. S. Wonderful! What a clever fellow you are, 
Preston. When I present you to Jemima, I'll do 
some booming. She has half a dozen daughters, 
and will order their portraits If she thinks youVe 
celebrated. Whose pupil did you say you were? 
Van Dyck's, If I mistake not. 

Hugh, In one sense — yes. I studied his portraits. 
Only he was not kind enough to come from the other 
world to give me lessons. 

Mr. S. Never mind that. Jemima would never know 
the difference. Now, come along' and put this In Its 
frame before the whole tribe bursts upon us. Fam- 
ily cusses are the worst cusses In the world . . . one 
can't get rid of them. Come ! (Hurries Hugh out. 
Bella follows. At the door they meet Ruth Cam- 
eron In her Puritan dress.) 

Hugh. Pray, Miss Cameron, wait for me a few min- 
utes. I merely have to hang this dainty lady. 

Ruth. I thought your duty was to resuscitate people, 
not to hang them ! (Exit Mr. Stewart, Hugh Pres- 
ton and Bella.) 



SCENE VI. 

Ruth Cameron, Peggie. 

Ruth. The whole place seems In a turmoil. What 

has happened? 
Peg. An Invasion of relatives — and that before the 



38 OUR ANCESTORS 

ancestors, sufficiently begrimed, had been set up to 
look their best In the dusky gallery. Mr. Preston 
has chosen the darkest nooks for his masterpieces 
and the sets of armor stand up like so many crusad- 
ers, just where the light made them glitter. I say . . . 
It all looks very well and right, somehow. I won- 
der If they weren't really our ancestors? 

Ruth. You win end by believing In them, Peggie — 
with all the others. It spreads like an epidemic. 

Peg. You have no such small vanities, have you, Miss 
Ruth? 

Ruth. Oh! We, In our family, are quite satisfied to 
reach back to lusty farmers of the colonial times. 
You know . . . for a governess . . . 

Peg. Isn't that a lark, though! He really believes 
that you are one, or at least some sort of poor 
relation. 

Ruth. And I feel quite guilty on the subject. It's all 
your fault, my little Peggie, and mine, too, for not 
contradicting the story at once. Somehow, I scarcely 
knew how to do It. 

Peg. And then, like Bella — you wanted to be loved 
. . . for yourself. 

Ruth. Ah! . . . loved? Mr. Preston talks to me, 
willingly enough — ^but he looks especially at Bella. 

Peg. Bella's got to marry Sir Mervyn . . . she's just 
got to ... so that she may Invite me to her place 
In Devonshire. It's her bounden duty, and you 
know It Is. Here comes your painter. I must be 
In the gallery when Aunt Jemima and all the cousins 
Invade It. I wouldn't miss the fun for a quarter! 
(Rushes out.) 



OUR ANCESTORS 39 



SCENE VII. 



Hugh Preston, Ruth Cameron. 

Hugh, A thousand pardons, Miss Cameron. I 
think we may snatch some sort of a sitting before 
luncheon, for Mr. Stewart will keep his relatives 
away from this ancestor factory, or I should be 
much astonished. Will you kindly take the posi- 
tion? That's right: hands folded on lap, head a 
little on one side — so. 

Ruth. So you hope to finish this picture to-day? 

Hugh. Hope? . . . fear would be the better word. 
I scarcely know how to tell you. Miss Cameron, what 
these sittings have been to me : they have revealed 
you to me as you are, really, not as you appear to 
others. 

Ruth. And what is my real self, according to you? 

Hugh. A woman, infinitely tender, compassionate to 
others — perhaps because she, herself, has suf- 
fered . . . 

Ruth. Yet I assure you that I have nothing to com- 
plain of so far. Go on. You quite interest me. 

Hugh. No — of course — you would never complain. 
You are as courageous as you are gentle. 

Ruth. My courage has scarcely been put to the test. 



40 • OUR ANCESTORS 

But I trust that, should an occasion present Itself, I 
should not prove a coward. 

Hugh. And do you look upon your position as not 
trying, as not demanding peculiar dignity and real 
courage? I, too, have been thrown, by circum- 
stances, with people much richer than myself. I 
know all the petty annoyances, humiliations even, 
which the disproportion of fortune inevitably brings 
about. This it is. Miss Ruth, which first drew me 
to you, made me study you . . . convinced me that 
if I left this place without telling you of my deep, 
my sincere feelings, I should be throwing away the 
one great happiness of my life. 

Ruth. What would Bella say were she to hear you? 

Hugh. She would say that I had chosen rightly — that 
I could nowhere find a lovelier, sweeter wife than 
her little friend — if only her little friend would con- 
sent to put her hand in mine — so ! 

Ruth. (Drawing away her hand.) Is It part of your 
profession to make love to your sitters, Mr. Pres- 
ton? If so, the woman you finally marry would 
scarcely feel very sure of your affection. 

Hugh. We seek to give a pleased expression to the 
faces we study, that Is true. But that Is scarcely 
making love, Is It? 

Ruth. Let us ask Arabella. 

Hugh. Miss Stewart Is, If I mistake not, at this mo- 
ment (Consoling Sir Mervyn for his temporary dls- 
confiture. I am to be asked to the wedding. 

Ruth. And your heart Is not broken? It Is true that 
it has surely been often mended, like precious china. 

Hugh. It is so little broken, Miss Cameron, that not 



OUR ANCESTORS 41 

half an hour ago I urged this most desirable mar- 
riage first upon one, then upon the other. 

Ruth. (With a pleased smile.) Really? . . . And 
since Peggie gives her consent, I suppose we may 
listen for the wedding bells. 

Hugh. (Going up to her.) Will you do me the justice 
to believe that, for once, I can be serious, and very 
serious? 

Ruth, I believe it, Mr. Preston. 

Hugh. Then believe also that, from the first, I have 
thought of you, and tried to persuade myself that I 
might perhaps dare to woe you. Only, let me show 
myself as I really am : a poor painter, with a little 
talent — not over-much — and, so far, no reputation. 
It is therefore but a precarious life that I can offer 
you, with ups and downs — more downs than ups, I 
fear. But you are brave, and I am resolved to do 
my very best not to test your courage too far. I 
have faith in my future, if only you will help me to 
keep up that faith — and what an incentive I should 
then have ! 

Ruth. How could you think of me, by the side of 
Arabella ? 

Hugh. I admired Miss Stewart; but I loved you, that 
is all the difference. 

Ruth. And you would take upon yourself the burden 
of a poor wife? 

Hugh. Most gladly — most proudly. 

Ruth. Then here is the hand I drew back just now. 
(He kisses the hand.) 



42 OUR ANCESTORS 



SCENE Fill. 



The same. Peggie bounds in. 

Pe^. Well. Just now it was Bella — now it's you, Miss 
Ruth ! I, for one, will never marry a painter. Paint 
seems to go to the head and makes universal lovers 
of those who use it. 

Hugh. Pray observe the difference. Miss Peggie. I 
shook hands with your sister, to congratulate her 
upon her choice; but I kiss the hand of your gover- 
ness — because she gives it to me to keep — always. 

Peg. (Bursting with laughter.) My governess . . . 
and all that because of those horrid French verbs 
she insisted on teaching me. I think that joke has 
lasted long enough, don't you, Miss Ruth? 

Ruth. Too long. 

Peg. Did you never see the name of father's firm: 
Stewart and Cameron? Mr. Cameron is father's 
partner. It isn't likely that his daughter would go 
governessing, now is it? 

Hugh. Oh I Ruth, you have deceived me ! 

Ruth. Forgive me, Hugh. It will be the last time. 
It all came from a misunderstanding. Bella and 
Peggie urged me not to undeceive you at once. . . . 
I am ashamed to say . . . that I was glad to profit 
by the mistake. Like Bella, I wanted to be loved 
for myself. 



OUR ANCESTORS 43 



SCENE IX. 

The same. Mr. Stewart, Arabella and Sir Mervyn 
Woodruff. 

Mr. S. (Radiant.) It all turned out splendidly. 
Jemima was too curious about the gallery even to 
wait for the piling on of her false hair, and I've 
just left her In awed contemplation of . . . our 
ancestors. She's prouder of them than I am, and 
believes In them more firmly than In her catechism. 
She asked me If she could find a history of England 
in the library. I'm sure I don't know. If she is 
shaky on the subject, I am more so. The news- 
papers are enough for me, in the reading line. 

Sir M. Question me. I can give you some points. 
What's the use of having an English son-in-law, if 
you can't pump him? 

Mr. S. So — so, an English son-in-law? Why, 
Arabella, you assured me that you would marry none 
but an American. . . . 

Bella. Since we are descended from so many noble 
English and Scottish heroes, father. It seems some- 
how natural to return to our original stock. 

Mr. S. Preston — you have done your work too well. 
I did not bargain for this result. 

Sir M. Am I not of sufficiently good birth, Mr. 
Stewart, to aspire to your daughter's hand? It is 
true that we were only knighted at Azincourt. 



44 OUR ANCESTORS 

Bella. Father ... we care for each other . . . 

very much. 
Mr. S. That's all right, then. Shake hands, my dear 

fellow — and when in your turn, you have a daughter, 

I hope she will marry a good American. 
Ruth. As to me, Mr. Stewart, not boasting of any 

noble ancestors, I am going to marry an American. 

Allow me to present him to you as a future great 

artist, Mr. Hugh Preston. 
Mr. S. The pupil of Van Dyck! Well, young man, 

for a maker of ancestors you have not lost your 

time. You probably knew what you were about 

when you made love ... 
Ruth. (Interrupting him.) ... to one whom he 

took to be Peggie's governess. 
Hugh. And whom I should have married as such, 

most joyfully. 
Peg. Hurrah! A double wedding. . . . When are 

you going to invite me to your castle, Bella? 



DEC S - 1911 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 






LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




